Chapter 67: The Little Spider

In the SHIELD break room, Steve pointed to a diagram on the whiteboard and said, “I’ve already explained that tactical proficiency isn’t just about planning your operation in advance—it’s more importantly about simultaneously understanding the enemy’s intentions, even anticipating their movements before they do.”

“Your last operation failed partly because you didn’t do this.”

“You chose to climb onto the roof first—that was good; securing the high ground is crucial—but then you made a fatal mistake.”

“First, you didn’t determine how many exits the building had before barging in.”

“Second, when fighting inside a building, we rarely recommend high-level assaults. Once you start driving enemies down from above, they’ll instinctively flee downward—and if there’s an exit on the lower floors, they can escape safely.”

“The correct approach is either to surround them from both top and bottom, or to assault floor by floor from below. If you push enemies upward, they can only run higher—then they’re forced to jump out a window or get trapped inside, unable to use ground-level exits. Understood?”

Peter wrote on the coffee table in front of him and asked, “But breaking in will make noise—what if they become alert? I came through the window precisely to catch them off guard...”

“Your thinking is correct. The most important thing in building assaults is speed. As I just said, if you want to drive enemies upward, you must first identify all the building’s exits and seal them off before you break in.”

“In fact, I don’t strongly recommend this method. Though you have natural advantages, your opponent is fighting on his home turf—he knows the rooms and structure better than you do.”

“You may have surprised them, but stepping into an unfamiliar building means your surroundings are completely unknown to you. If there are traps inside, you might not react quickly enough.”

Peter was about to mention his spider-sense, but then he thought better of it—Steve had a point. Even though he’d seen two people inside from the window, what if Bullseye had laid an ambush? What if he smashed a cup and dozens of men burst out from nowhere? His spider-sense was good in the moment, but it wasn’t prophecy, and it couldn’t see through walls.

Peter scribbled in his notebook as Steve continued, “Also, you already know your opponent is a man with multiple escape routes.”

“You said you thought the dump was ideal for fighting him—but you forget he’s spent far more time there than you have. A cunning enemy like this has surely rehearsed a dozen escape routes in his mind.”

“Even if he doesn’t use tear gas, one moment of distraction and he’ll slip away.”

Peter sighed and said, “I thought my plan was thorough, but I didn’t realize how many mistakes I made. I guess I really did deserve to lose.”

Steve walked over, sat beside him, and patted his shoulder. “It’s normal. You’re already highly talented. You haven’t seen the guys back in the army—they were too scared to even do high-altitude rappelling, standing on rooftops trembling with fear, let alone airborne assaults. You managed this from the start—you’re already far ahead of most of them.”

Peter closed his notebook and said, “Next time, I won’t let him get away.”

An hour later, in Stark Tower’s lab, Stark held up an antenna. “Your series connection is stable, but it completely fails to maximize the antenna’s potential...”

“Don’t give me excuses about material limitations! Back in Afghanistan, I built a suit out of scrap metal. I made a better computer than this when I was six!”

“And you misunderstand ‘intelligence’ in the smart-grab system. You think writing an auto-filtering script counts as intelligence? Why not try building a full artificial intelligence logic?”

Stark set down the wire, snapped his fingers, and a screen slowly descended from the ceiling. He pointed at the map. “Look here—this is Hell’s Kitchen, right?”

“It’s shaped like a spindle. Your signal coverage doesn’t have to be a perfect circle—you can use different frequencies to maximize efficiency, like this...”

“Also, you could establish a base and set up a simple signal tower to monitor specific Hell’s Kitchen signals...”

Peter tapped the map of Hell’s Kitchen with his laser pointer, thoughtful. “I’ve identified the central intersection of Hell’s Kitchen—the center of the sewer system I used to travel through. Could we place a signal device there? What method should I use? My current setup is stable, but it’s definitely inefficient...”

Several hours later, night had fallen. Shiler was about to close the door when Peter squeezed through the gap.

“I heard your operation didn’t go well,” Shiler said.

Seeing Peter nod sadly, Shiler said, “You have the technology to monitor mobile signals, but I think it’s not the best approach.”

“Yes, it’s simple, crude, and effective—but that’s exactly the problem. It makes you overlook too many details.”

“Bullseye’s trail isn’t as invisible as you think. You just lack awareness of surveillance and counter-surveillance.”

Peter sat on the sofa, drank some water, and Shiler pulled out his medical file. “Do you know where the most well-informed place in Hell’s Kitchen is?”

Peter shook his head.

“I’ll ask you this: what are the two things no one can escape?”

“Death and taxes?”

“Correct. Now, what do those two things correspond to in Hell’s Kitchen?”

“I haven’t heard of any hospitals or tax bureaus in Hell’s Kitchen...” Peter shook his head.

“Without understanding Hell’s Kitchen’s rules, you stand almost no chance of successfully fighting crime.”

Peter said, “Alright, I actually thought about this last night—I was too impulsive. When I thought about Matt’s situation, I just wanted to punch that guy right away.”

“Hell’s Kitchen doesn’t have proper hospitals or bureaus, but when gangs fight, their members still get injured. Do doctors treat them? Where do these doctors come from? Who hires them? Could there be special intelligence there?”

“Hell’s Kitchen has no tax bureau, but gangs collect massive protection fees and run countless businesses. Do you really think these gang bosses, most of whom didn’t even finish middle school, handle their own accounting?”

“Where do they hire their accountants? When do they come? Which boss does each accountant know? Could one of them have seen the person you’re looking for just recently?”

“What about the truck drivers moving through Hell’s Kitchen’s streets every day? Taxi and bus drivers?”

“Even gangsters have to eat. Where does Bullseye order his meals? Has he hired a chef recently? Or worse—has he visited a strip club? Or hired prostitutes?”

Shiler tapped the map Peter had opened. “A human being living in this world can never leave absolutely no trace.”

“Anyone surviving in society must interact with others in that society.”

“You might imagine surveillance as walking around with a magnifying glass, searching for footprints—or only noticing physical evidence.”

“But every person he’s met, every word he’s spoken, leaves some trace—however faint.”

Shiler shook his head. “Bullseye isn’t some counter-surveillance master. If you’re willing to invest more patience in investigating these details, you might not even need to fight him.”

“Surveillance isn’t just the prelude to battle—it’s also the requiem for the dead.”

“One day, if you truly master this skill, you’ll understand you don’t need to waste energy swinging fists to deal with these criminals.”

“I’m not talking about using anesthetics, drugging drinks, or poisoning food—those are petty tricks.”

“If you can map out a person’s entire social network and trace every single imprint they’ve left in society, you’ll find countless ways to use their connections against them—leveraging small forces to achieve great results.”

“You won’t need to cut a single thread—you’ll skillfully unravel the tangled knot and re-knot it exactly how you want.”

This time, Peter didn’t write or draw in his notebook. He said, “I don’t fully understand this yet, but maybe one day, when I use it, I’ll remember.”

“Honestly, I still prefer punching. I always feel that if I have to use these methods, the situation must already be beyond hope.” As he spoke, the sound of the clinic’s rolling gate closing echoed outside.

Two days later, a man with a target mark on his head was dumped at the entrance of the Manhattan Police Department.

On the rooftop across the street, Spider-Man stood watching as the police took Bullseye inside. The dusk streets of New York remained bustling. This small incident drew attention from passersby, but soon they lowered their heads and hurried on.

“You’ve surprised me,” Matt’s voice came from behind Spider-Man. He held his cane. “In just a few days, you’ve disabled Kingpin’s biggest eye in Hell’s Kitchen. How did you do it?”

Spider-Man stood at the rooftop’s edge. Hearing Matt’s voice, he turned around.

He removed his mask. His tousled hair fluttered in the sunset’s glow, turning into floating golden threads. He smiled, radiating the youthful innocence and brightness of his age.

He said, “Probably because I’m just really good at making friends.”